Infinite Chapter 4

Infinite Chapter 4

2232, Neo-Urbana

The penthouse was a glass and steel cathedral suspended in the sky, one and a half kilometres above the sprawl of Neo-Urbana. Quentin Santiago III stood at the edge of the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection a ghostly silhouette against the city’s neon haze. The tower was his kingdom, and the penthouse its throne room—a place where the air smelled faintly of ozone and the hum of quantum servers vibrated through the walls. The room was vast, cold, and sterile, filled with artifacts of a world that no longer existed: a first-edition Hemingway, a Tesla coil that crackled on occasion, and a life-sized hologram of a Bengal tiger that prowled the perimeter, its eyes glowing like molten gold.

Quentin’s brain computer interface buzzed softly, and he blinked twice to activate the feed. The news streamed directly into his mind, a cascade of images and voices. The headline was bold, flashing red: *Incognito Strikes Again: Earth Library Raided, Cryogenic Catalogue Stolen.* The footage showed a man in a Guy Fawkes mask, his voice distorted, speaking to the camera. “The rich elite think they own history,” the man said, his tone dripping with theatrical menace. “They think they can freeze the past, own it, sell it. But history belongs to the people. And we are the people.”

Quentin sighed. He had heard this kind of drivel before. It was the same tired rhetoric, the same posturing. But this time, it was personal. The stolen catalogue included the body of Ramon Atila, the 21st-century author whose works had defined an era. Atila was more than a historical figure; he was Quentin’s ancestor. The man’s DNA ran through Quentin’s veins, a legacy etched in carbon and code.

Quentin turned to the magic mirror on the wall. It was an antique, a relic from the early 2000s, retrofitted with AI. “Mirror,” he said, his voice low and commanding, “what would Ramon Atila say about this?”

The mirror flickered to life, its surface shimmering like liquid mercury. The face of Ramon Atila appeared, his features sharp and severe, his eyes burning with intensity. For a moment, Quentin felt a flicker of hope. But then Atila spoke. “Have you tried Gummy Bear Mouth Wash?” he said, his voice smooth and persuasive. “It’s the only mouth wash that combines the fun of gummy bears with the power of advanced dental science. Get yours today.”

Quentin stared at the mirror, his jaw tightening. “You’re useless,” he muttered. The mirror’s surface rippled, and Atila’s face dissolved into a cascade of emojis.

He turned back to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The city stretched out before him, a labyrinth of light and shadow. Somewhere down there, Incognito was hiding, plotting their next move. Quentin’s lips curled into a faint smile. He liked a challenge. But more than that, he liked winning.

The tiger hologram padded over to him, its form flickering slightly. “Sir,” it said, its voice deep and resonant, “your 3:15 p.m. orbital meeting is in five minutes.”

Quentin nodded absently. He wasn’t ready to think about orbital meetings. Not yet. His mind was still on Incognito, on the audacity of their theft. They thought they could fight him, fight the system. But they didn’t understand. The system wasn’t just a machine; it was an organism, and Quentin was its beating heart.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver device. It was a neural disruptor, capable of shutting down a person’s brain computer interface with a single pulse. He turned it over in his hand, feeling its weight. Incognito had made a mistake. They had taken something that belonged to him. And Quentin Santiago III did not take kindly to thieves.

The tiger hologram growled softly, its eyes narrowing. “Sir,” it said, “shall I prepare the jet?”

Quentin shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “First, I need to send a message.”

He stepped closer to the window, his reflection merging with the city’s skyline. Somewhere out there, the man in the Guy Fawkes mask was watching, waiting. But Quentin wasn’t afraid. He was the future, and the future was inevitable.

The tiger hologram flickered again, its form dissolving into a cloud of pixels. Quentin smiled. Let them come. He was ready.

——

1985, Miami 

The motel room smelled like mildew and regret. The kind of place where the carpet stuck to your feet and the air conditioner groaned like it was on life support. Ramon Atila sat on the edge of the bed, a lukewarm beer in his hand, staring at the peeling wallpaper. Next to him, Jeremy, a nerd with a calculator watch and a fanny pack, was pacing the room, his voice high-pitched and frantic.

“I’m telling you, Ramon,” Jeremy said, pushing his glasses up his nose, “in my past life, I invented a program that could hack into quantum servers. It was genius. Revolutionary. I was basically the Einstein of code.”

Ramon took a swig of his beer, his face a mask of exhaustion. “You’re telling me you were a hacker in another life, and now you’re… this?” He gestured at Jeremy’s neon-green shorts and socks with sandals.

“Reincarnation is a cruel mistress,” Jeremy said, shrugging. “But the knowledge is still in here.” He tapped his temple, knocking his glasses askew.

The phone rang. A shrill, jarring sound that made Ramon’s spine stiffen. Jeremy answered, his voice suddenly serious. “Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll be ready.” He hung up and turned to Ramon, his face pale.

“What do you mean, ‘ready’?” Ramon asked, his voice low. “Ready for what?”

Before Jeremy could answer, a shadow moved across the window blinds. A silhouette, tall and menacing, paused for a moment, then disappeared. Ramon’s heart raced. He stood, knocking over his beer. “What the hell is going on, Jeremy?”

Jeremy adjusted his glasses, his hands trembling. “They found me. They know about the program.”

“Who found you? What program?” Ramon’s voice rose, panic creeping in. “You said it was a past life thing! You said it didn’t matter!”

“It matters!” Jeremy shouted, his voice cracking again. “It matters to them!”

There was a knock at the door. Three sharp raps, like the toll of a funeral bell. Ramon froze. “Don’t answer it,” he whispered.

Jeremy hesitated, then tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. His face went white. “It’s him.”

“Who’s him?” Ramon hissed.

The door burst open. A man stepped inside, his mullet glistening under the flickering fluorescent light. He wore a ripped denim vest with no shirt underneath, revealing a chest hair situation that could only be described as “aggressive.” In his hand was a gun, its barrel gleaming like a shark’s smile.

Ramon froze. “Who the hell are you?”

The man grinned, revealing a gold tooth. “I’m the guy who’s here to clean up loose ends.” He raised the gun and fired.

The first shot hit Ramon in the chest, the second in the stomach, the third in the shoulder. Ramon fell to the floor, his vision blurring. He looked up at Jeremy, who was cowering behind the TV stand. “You… you idiot…” Ramon gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. Then everything went black.

---

Ramon woke up in a dark dungeon. The air was damp, the walls slick with something he didn’t want to identify. Chains hung from the ceiling, and the sound of dripping water echoed in the distance. He tried to move, but his body felt heavy, like it was made of lead.

“Ramon?” a voice called out from the darkness. It was deep, guttural, and somehow familiar. “Ramon Atila?”

Ramon’s heart pounded. “Who’s there?”

The voice chuckled, a low, menacing sound. “You don’t remember me? I’m hurt, Ramon. After everything we’ve been through.”

A figure stepped into the dim light. It was the mullet man, his denim vest now adorned with a patch that read *“Quantum Mullet: Hack the Planet.”* He twirled the gun in his hand, his gold tooth glinting.

“You…” Ramon whispered, his voice trembling. “You killed me.”

The mullet man shrugged. “Technically, you’re not dead. You’re in a quantum simulation. Jeremy’s program? It’s running right now. And you, my friend, are the glitch.”

Ramon’s mind raced. “So… this is a simulation?”

“Bingo,” the mullet man said, grinning. “And I’m here to debug you.”

“Debug me?” Ramon’s voice rose in panic. “What does that even mean?”

The mullet man raised the gun. “It means I’m gonna shoot you again. And again. And again. Until you stop existing.”

Ramon screamed as the gun fired. The first shot hit him in the chest, the second in the stomach, the third in the shoulder. He woke up in the dark dungeon. The voice called out again.

“Ramon?”

“Oh, for the love of—” Ramon began, but the mullet man was already stepping into the light, his gun raised.

“Let’s try this again,” he said, grinning.

Ramon closed his eyes. “I hate you, Jeremy.”

The gun fired. Again. And again. And again.

To be continued….

AtilA